A married woman has an affair

Eleven/Clara & Twelve/Clara

M


"I know, I'm sorry... My flight's been delayed until tomorrow."

Clara fiddled with the stem of her martini glass as she listened to her husband talk on the other side of the line. She'd never really had a martini before, having always opted for fruity cocktails or a pint in uni, and sadly she discovered she wasn't a fan. She hadn't wanted to just mope about her hotel room, however, so she'd come down to the bar and decided to be daring and order something out of the ordinary.

Her life had become so ordinary.

It wasn't that she was unhappy—she had a good job, a gorgeous husband whom she adored and who doted on her, and a lovely new house in a great neighborhood in London. The problem was that she had to keep reminding herself that she had those things, like they dashed away any excuse she could have to feel unhappy with her life.

It wasn't that she was unhappy. She was bored.

Everything was just so predictable: wake up, go to work, come home, have dinner, go to bed. The weekends sometimes featured a trip to the cinema or the Lake District or a shopping venture with the girls, but Clara felt like the daring, experimental, carefree days of her youth were gone, only to be replaced by mundane security.

She wasn't ungrateful—she loved her mundane little life—but this trip to Paris was supposed to have breathed some freshness and novelty into it, and she'd been sorely disappointed. It wasn't her first time in the city, so the novelty itself was a miss, and it had rained buckets the entire weekend, keeping the crowds packed inside with their muddy feet and dripping umbrellas. She had frankly been eager to fly back home to London, but the rain clouds had kept her grounded. The airline put her in a rather cheap hotel near the airport, but it had a bar near the lobby where she decided to squeeze out what she could from her remaining time abroad.

"Alright, gotta go. Love ya," John said before he hung up the phone.

Clara smiled sadly and pulled the phone aware from her ear. "Love you, too."

A flat screen TV on the back wall hummed with the dull, monotonous rhythm of the nightly news relayed by a reporter with a smooth French accent. She reminded Clara of her French tutor from college. A few tables and chairs were scattered about the room, which was large by most Parisian standards, but Clara had opted to sit at the bar. That's what all of the lonely women did in the movies—sit alone at the bar with their cocktail, twiddling with the stem while they crossed their legs and leaned their cheeks against their palms. She kept waiting for something to happen, but she didn't know what.

That is, until a man took a seat next to her.

He kept one chair between them out of politeness—the bar was completely empty, so it would have read extremely creepy if he'd sat directly next to her. His relative proximity made him difficult to miss, and Clara found herself more than glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He was an older man—past fifty, at least—with silver hair and a thin face that still clung to a boyish sort of handsomeness. He was tall and lean, with thin limbs that extended into thin fingers and long feet in highly polished Italian loafers (Clara assumed they were Italian—they looked expensive, and all the expensive shoes came from Italy). He ordered a whisky on the rocks and she couldn't help but smile because he was Scottish; of course he'd order whisky.

He noticed her too, of course, but he didn't attempt to mask his curiosity. He folded his arms against the edge of the bar and leaned into it as he turned his head to take in the petite young woman sitting one stool away. She had the sort of face that made you do a double take, because no one ever expected to see someone that pretty in real life. She was extremely petite—the bar stools weren't that high, but her three inch heels still dangled several inches from the floor. Her eyes were dark and framed by even darker lashes, her skin was a rich caramel colour, and her lips had a fullness to them that betrayed the thin contours of her grin.

Their attraction to each other was instant.

"So," he began. "What's brought you to Paris?"

The barman placed his glass of whisky on the bar in front of him and then disappeared out the back—probably to have a cigarette. Everyone smoked in Paris.

"I came to visit an old friend from uni," she replied. "She's just helped set up an art gallery near Saint Germain."

"Ah, so you're English," he said after she finished speaking. "Thought you might be."

Clara laughed at that. "Do I look English?"

"You can always tell by looking at a person's mouth."

"Really?" she replied with polite disbelief.

He took a sip of his whisky and nodded. "The lines, the way they smile, the movements… they're all different when you're used to forming and shaping certain sounds with your lips."

Her eyes naturally fell to his lips. He noticed.

"So what is it you do?" he asked.

"Schoolteacher. You?"

"Doctor—physics, not medicine."

He looked like a professor type. "Ah, nice. My husband's a doctor—medicine, not physics."

His gaze hesitantly fell to her left hand, then flicked back to her face. "Is he, now?" She nodded. "Why is it he's left you alone down in the bar?"

It took her a moment to catch what he meant. "Oh, he's back in London. Couldn't get out of work."

"Ah, I see. I suppose he doesn't get much time off."

Clara heaved a sigh and stared at her martini glass. "Not any predictable amount of time, no."

He smiled at her drink. "You actually going to drink that?"

"I'm not sure."

"Too dirty?"

"Too much gin."

He laughed the sort of laugh that curled his mouth to one side of his face. "Maybe you should have gone for vodka. What do you normally drink?"

The second the words 'vodka cranberry' left her lips, the barman walked back in and the unnamed doctor was signaling for him to bring one over.

"Oh, you don't have to…"

"Don't be silly. You don't want to spend your night in Paris' most glamorous airport hotel without a good drink."

Clara laughed, her teeth flashing as she bowed her head, shoulders shaking. He had a disarming sort of charm that made her laugh easily. He kept doing that, especially when he told her about visiting a lecture at the Université Pierre et Marie Curie, mostly because his imitation of the old physics lecturer's French accent left her in stitches.

"What's your name?" he asked with a smile when she finally stopped laughing.

She leaned her elbow on the bar and placed her palm against her burning cheek. "Clara."

"Clara. It's lovely to meet you."

She had about four more vodka cranberries during the course of their conversation, but she never learned his name; she just kept calling him Doctor and he let her. They rode the tiny lift to the third floor and he followed her towards her door to say goodnight, or at least that's what he said. They both knew what was about to happen. Clara didn't know why she didn't stop it.

He kissed her like he knew her, like they were old friends and he'd hungered for her since the day they first met. She clutched his shoulders as he leaned into her, tilting her backwards so that her lower body pressed into his. His hands slid up and down her back before tightly gripping her waist and she moaned softly against his lips.

"Come in?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yes."

Clara fumbled with the key card and then they were inside, lips locked as the Doctor pushed her back against the door. Her lips parted when he palmed her breast and he slid his tongue against hers, making her shudder and gasp. Soon her top was off and he was kissing her, nipping and sucking as her fingertips dug into his scalp. They tripped over their fallen clothes on their way to the bed and then he was on top of her, inside of her, his skin flush against hers as he gasped and grunted against her cheek. Clara dug her fingernails into his shoulder blades and slammed her eyes shut as she focused on the feel of him inside her and the way his voice rumbled in her ear and the creaking of the bed with every thrust of their bodies. A strangled cry escaped her throat when she came and he breathed hotly into mouth when his release followed closely behind.

Clara's chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath, the room still spinning from the sex and the alcohol and now the paralyzing guilt that was washing over her. The Doctor lifted his head from where it was buried in the crook of her neck and kissed her right above her pulse point.

She flinched like he'd bitten her.

"What the matter?" he asked.

"Get up," she said.

"Are you okay?"

Tears spilled from her eyes as she pushed at his chest. "Get up—get up!"

The Doctor stood from the bed and Clara rolled to the end of it so she could land on her feet and run into the bathroom. She made it to the toilet before her stomach purged the four cranberry vodkas and her salmon salad from dinner into the bowl. The toilet flushed when she found the button on top, and then she lay in a heap on the cheap bathroom rug, her body shaking as she wept. She heard the door click open and then his shuffled footsteps and aching groan as he knelt on the floor beside her, but still she flinched in surprise when his warm hand fell onto the cool skin at her waist.

"I'm sorry," he said grimly.

She clutched her hair and curled into an even tighter ball, sobs wracking her body. Clara couldn't stop thinking of her sweet husband and his voice on the phone and how he always kissed her softly after they made love—and she'd just had sex with a complete stranger in an airport hotel room in Paris. Four vodka cranberries and her marriage vows went down the drain.

She wanted to protest when the Doctor lifted her off the floor, but instead she buried her head against his shoulder and wept while he carried her back towards the bed. She felt the pillow hit her cheek and the sheets drape over her skin, and then his warmth was gone.

Despite the fact that the world was spinning around her, Clara sat up and clutched the sheet to her chest. "What are you doing?"

He was in his pants, now struggling to get his trousers on. "I'm leaving."

She hastily swiped the tears from her cheeks and sniffed through her stuffy nose. "Why?"

He stopped and gave her a pitying look. "Why do you think?"

"I wouldn't have asked if I knew," she retorted.

The Doctor heaved a sigh and practically fell onto the edge of the bed at her feet, his gaze drifting towards the window. "You're married."

The words felt like a knife to her chest. Clara bowed her head and then frowned up at him. "So are you—you've got a tan line on your ring finger. Did you take it off when you saw me?"

He looked at her, his eyes somehow older than they'd seemed earlier. "Yes."

Clara hadn't expected him to be so honest. She could only stare at him, eyelids blinking rapidly as he returned his attention to redressing.

"But my wife died six years ago. She's not waiting for me back in London like your husband."

Clara clutched her face and fell back onto her pillow with a pathetic sob. Moments later, the edge of the mattress sank beside her and the Doctor placed his hands at her wrists.

"Hey, look at me," he said in a tone that contrasted the harshness of his previous statement. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pursued you. You told me you were married."

"Thank you," she said dully, rubbing her face before pulling her hands away so she could look at him. "But I am not a victim here."

"I never said you were." He touched the side of her face, his thumb brushing away stray tears. "Does he work a lot?"

She shut her eyes and nodded. "That's no excuse…"

"No, but it explains why you miss him so much."

Clara wrapped her fingers around his wrist, clinging to the kindness he offered her.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have approached you," he said again. "I could tell you were lonely."

"I wasn't lonely; I was alone."

He nodded. "If you say so."

"I think you're the lonely one."

His expression remained the same. "I can't argue with that."


The dull roar that greeted her on the aircraft hurt her ears. Clara kept her head bowed, sunglasses still perched on her nose as she shuffled behind a portly woman with a rolling suitcase who kept stopping suddenly, causing Clara to knock her toes into the hard case. It was the sudden stopping and the delaying of her sitting down in her seat that bothered her more than the jarring knock to her toes.

She scanned the numbers above the seats for 32G and heaved a sigh of relief when she saw that she was next to the window. She waited for the woman in front of her to move again so she could get to her seat, her gaze drifting about the cabin until it settled on the strikingly familiar face seated three rows behind her.

He saw her at the same time, but Clara immediately looked away. Once she was able to get to her seat, she shoved her bag in the compartment overhead and then plopped down hard enough to rattle her bones.

Her heart was racing. How could she have been so foolish not to realise that the Scottish man staying in the hotel had been pushed to the same flight to London as she had?

Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she pulled it out of her jacket to see a text from her husband. Tears sprung to her eyes.

In my seat waiting to take off. See you tonight x

She hit the send button and then pressed the top of the phone to her lips. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she whispered as she closed her eyes.

Three seats behind her, the Doctor frowned when he heard her sniffle.


The sound of ice rattling in plastic cups and peanut bags crinkling pierced the white noise of the pressurised cabin. Clara had just finished her tomato juice when her neighbour in the aisle seat got up to visit the lavatory. She was considering getting up at the same time for the sake of convenience, but then the seat was promptly occupied by the man she'd spent the entire flight (and the entire evening before it) trying not to think about.

"Hi," he said carefully.

Clara shrank away from him, but tried to sit up straight when she caught herself. "What are you doing?"

"I wanted to see how you were."

"Bloody awful. Thanks for asking."

Despite her frosty tone, he seemed to settle even more into the seat next to her. He stared at the paused in-flight movie on the screen in front of him and pressed his lips together.

"I have to ask," he said. "Because last night, we didn't…" He cleared his throat. "We didn't use birth control."

Clara wanted to break the window and jump out of the plane. "I'm going to take the pill when I get home."

"The morning after..?"

"Yes. Please, could you leave?"

Neither looked at the other. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to upset you."

He stood abruptly, nearly knocking into the bearded man who was returning to the seat he'd just vacated. Clara thought about the Doctor for the rest of the trip, but he was a lingering thought in the back of her mind while she worried instead of what she'd do when she saw John again.

Should she tell him? Should she lie, and pretend like everything was alright? She wanted to tell him, but wondered if any good would come of it, or it would just alleviate her guilt.

Frankly, she didn't think anything could alleviate her guilt at this point.

She didn't see the Doctor again, but she'd made a point not to look behind her or to linger in the terminal before catching the train back to town.

The Doctor saw her, though. He didn't want her to know he was following her, so he hung back several paces as he watched her walk towards the trains into town. If you'd asked him why he continued to follow her even though she clearly didn't want to see him again, he wouldn't have been able to tell you. He was worried about her, certainly. She was a young woman whose life he'd complicated by taking advantage of her loneliness, and he knew the guilt was eating her up.

He hadn't wanted that. He hadn't wanted to hurt her, he'd just wanted to make her laugh, to put his hands on her waist, to feel her pulse thrum beneath his lips as he thrust into her and made her cry out. He only wanted her to help him feel less alone.

She stopped once they reached the baggage claim area as if she'd hit an invisible barrier. The Doctor fidgeted on the escalator, worried that she'd turn around and find him watching her, but then he saw a young man with rather swishy hair standing about ten feet across from her with a sign that read 'Mrs Clara Smith'—her husband. Dr Smith crossed the space between them and pulled her into his arms (clearly he had surprised her by coming to pick her up) and when he twirled her around, Clara's eyes locked with the Doctor's, and he flinched. He immediately turned away and headed towards the queue for a taxi.


Later that night, John was lying in bed with his long limbs starfished around him while Clara brushed her teeth in the bathroom. The doors that separated them were open, so he could hear the faint buzz of her electric toothbrush while she stared questioningly at her reflection in the mirror.

"I'm still rather cross at Rory for only choosing to announce today that he could have covered my shifts this weekend. I would have loved to see Nina again. And spend the weekend in Paris with my beautiful wife," he added with a grin.

Clara smiled sadly and took a deep breath when she felt that gnawing pain in the pit of her stomach. She considered taking an antacid. "I would have loved that."

She shut off the light and then stood in the doorway of the bedroom, smiling at his ridiculous limbs sticking out in every direction. She forgot about the night before for a moment as she crawled into bed next to him, nudging his arms and legs like she always did to make some room for herself in the bed.

"One of these days you'll learn to share," she teased.

Clara slid underneath the covers and then released a nervous laugh when he sat up abruptly and hugged her to him. She closed her eyes and gripped the back of his t-shirt as he pressed light kisses to her scalp.

"I don't like coming home when you're not here," he breathed into her hair. "Never leave me, Clara."

She couldn't breathe. He made comments like that all the time, but normally they warmed her heart and she would kiss him until that lingering sadness in his eyes flickered out. Now all she wanted to do was scream.

Of course I'll never leave you. Please never ask me to.

Clara kissed him passionately, her love for him flooding her senses as his hands pulled her snugly against his body. He teased her for breathing so heavily and she wished it was because she was turned on, but she was struggling to keep from having a panic attack. She wanted him—she loved him—but she felt like she didn't deserve him anymore, and that broke her heart. She wanted to fix this, but she didn't know if it was even possible.


School started two weeks later. Clara hadn't been sleeping well, and she told everyone (including John) that it was the stress of getting everything ready for the new school year. It wasn't completely a lie, but it wasn't the truth either. She dressed for parents' night with a deep sense of dread because she would have to smile and answer questions about grading procedures and all the things parents expected her to do in order to get their children into a good university. Like that was solely her responsibility.

She was cleaning the white board when her new students and their parents started trickling in. It was an odd custom, parents' night, especially for children at this age, but it was something the school had embraced for the past twenty years. She wasn't about to knock tradition.

Clara shook several hands and plastered on her best smile as she was introduced to men and women she hoped never to see again. The worst part of her job was all the paperwork and planning, followed closely by meetings with parents who wanted to know what she was going to do about their son or daughter's poor marks in her class.

The classroom was full of parents when she saw him enter from the door at the back. He stopped when he saw her and stared with an owlish expression of shock that she knew she was mirroring. He looked the same as he had in Paris—he was even wearing the same blue jacket with red lining. Clara blinked several times before realising that she needed to address the crowd and was never so grateful to be asked questions about the curriculum for the upcoming term in her life.

He hung back while the rest of the crowd left for the next classroom tour. Clara pretended not to notice him until they were the last two people in the room. They were standing on opposite sides of the rows of desks when he finally spoke.

"You're my daughter's teacher."

Clara stared at the floor. Of course she was.

"I didn't know," he assured her.

She shook her head. "Neither did I. But then again, I never knew your name."

"Iain," he said. "Iain Brown."

Clara huffed a little laugh and then stared at him. "Why are you still here?"

"I wanted to see how you were doing."

"Do you feel responsible for my well-being?" she asked rather snidely.

"Yes."

She swallowed. He tensed up and then quickly wove through the desks so that he could stand in front of her.

"I don't want to butt into your life, Clara, because I know I've done a fair job of that already. But I don't want you to let what happened eat you up because I can tell you're a good person and that you love your husband."

She inhaled sharply. "Please leave."

"No, please—let me finish."

"You are finished. Please leave now."

"Clara—"

"What?" she shouted suddenly, the word bursting from her lips. "What do you expect to say that will make this all better? Can you turn back time so that I never cheated on my husband? Never had to sneak out of the house to go to the pharmacy for the morning after pill? It comes in two doses, you know. He caught me taking the second later that night and I lied and said it was paracetemol. I've never lied to my husband, ever, and now that's all I do. And it's eating me up. And it would be so bloody easy to blame it all on you, but I can't—because I did everything as much as you did, and now I can't stand to look at myself in the mirror…"

She struggled to breathe. The Doctor placed his hands on her shoulders and guided her towards the nearest desk so she could sit down and then bent forward so he could cup her cheeks and look her in the eye.

"This doesn't make you a bad person, Clara."

"Yes—yes it does."

"No, it doesn't. You're stupid, ok?" He laughed lightly. "You made a stupid mistake and you can't move past it because you want to bury it, but you can't. It'll kill you, Clara. It'll kill you."

She was sobbing. He brushed the tears from her face and then pressed a lingering kiss to her cheek that was only supposed to last a moment, but then she grabbed either side of his face and pulled him to her for a kiss that made him forget to breathe.

It wasn't that it was a good kiss—in fact, it was sloppy and wet and relatively terrible—but the fact that she was kissing him at all had shocked him. To his utter horror, he kissed her back until he remembered who she was and what he was meant to be doing and he pulled away.

"I'm sorry…" she said breathlessly, her eyes wide with shock.

"No, don't—"

She touched her lips. "I don't know what I'm doing."

He couldn't look her in the eye; he just nodded and started backing out of the room. "I'll leave—I'll leave."

She didn't ask him not to.


Oddly enough, she didn't cry any more after that night—her guilt had somehow gotten locked inside of her.


John was starting to notice something off in her behaviour. He often had to ask her a question twice because her mind was a million miles away, and the smiles she gave him were usually tight and sad.

She was in the kitchen washing the dishes one night when John sidled up behind her and kissed her neck, his arms looping about her middle. Clara's hands had stilled in the tepid, soapy water and her entire body went stiff. It was her lack of response that finally made him pull back and look at her.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Nothing," she lied.

"Clara…"

She turned off the tap and then stared at the bubbles popping on the surface of the water before turning to face him. "John, do you love me?"

"Clara, of course—"

She shut her eyes and shook her head rapidly. "No, I shouldn't have asked that. It's not fair. I take it back."

A deep lined formed between his eyes. "What's going on?"

Clara placed her palms on his chest as an involuntary whimper made her lips tremble. Immediately concerned, John placed his hands at her waist and she closed her eyes.

"I don't deserve you," she finally said.

"Nonsense. Of course you do."

"No, I don't, John. You don't understand how desperately I love you. How much I feel you in my life. How vital you are to me."

He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear as he struggled to understand what was happening.

"John, I did something terrible… and I don't expect you to forgive me."

His eyes grew impossibly wide. "Clara, it's OK—whatever it is, you can tell me."

"No, I know—I know, I have to tell you because it's ruining everything. It's ruined everything… And it's not fair for me to keep this from you any longer." She lowered her hands from his chest. "John… That night my flight was delayed in Paris… I slept with someone."

He lowered his hands to his sides and took a step back. A sob tore through her and she covered her mouth with the back of her hand.

"I don't know why, I swear—I really don't. I was feeling disappointed and alone, and he was just there, and we were drinking and it was so stupid. John, I've never done anything so stupid in my entire life, and oh god, you didn't deserve it. I'm so sorry. John, I'm so, so sorry…"

He turned sharply away from her and placed his hands on the refrigerator, his chest heaving as he took deep, slow breaths. Clara shrank back against the counter, unsure of what was happening. Was he going to shout? Would he hit her? She wouldn't blame him if he did.

But what he did was worse: he started to cry.

It felt like the ground had been ripped out from under her and she was falling. His shoulders shook and his breathing was ragged, but otherwise John didn't move. Clara's face crumpled miserably, but when he turned to face her she struggled to regain her composure.

His cheeks glistened with tears. "Do you even love me?"

"Oh, my god," she sobbed. "God, John—yes. Of course I love you."

"Do you love him?"

The question was so absurd that she laughed. Apparently that wasn't a good enough answer, because his expression hardened.

"No, of course not," she assured him.

"Are you going to leave me, Clara?" he asked, his voice breaking on her name.

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. "I don't want to lose you, John. Please, please forgive me—please."

The entire scene was so absurd. Clara couldn't recall a time she'd ever seen her husband cry, not in the five years that they'd known each other. She was still in her pantsuit from work, the purple one that had reminded her of the jacket he always wore. He had just woken up after a long night shift at the hospital and was still in his pyjamas, and he was looking at her with the same expression she saw every time she looked in the mirror—like he didn't recognise her anymore.

"I was wrong, and I know that I've hurt you," she continued when he didn't reply. "If I could go back and change it, I would. You're the only man I want and I hate that I've ruined the perfect thing we had… I'm so sorry, John…"

She dissolved into a fit of sobs. Immediately, John stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her so tightly that it felt like he was trying to keep her from falling apart. Clara clutched his grey t-shirt and then stood on her tip toes so she could wrap her arms around his neck. He wept into her hair and she kissed his neck over and over, muttering apologies against his skin until he told her to stop.

"I forgive you," he said shakily.

"Are you sure?"

He pulled back and cupped her face between his hands as he stared into her eyes. "I'm sure."

She closed her eyes and exhaled so heavily that her breath shook on the next inhale. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They both laughed. Clara clutched him to her and he hugged her back tightly, the tension still present in his muscles. They went into the bedroom and made love. John was rough at first, and she invited it. She wanted him to punish her for what she'd done, but his touch quickly grew gentle, and he kissed her tenderly while her hands rubbed soothing circles up and down his back.

He had forgiven her, but the thought of her with another man was always on his mind. It was his turn to grow distant, to make excuses for his wandering thoughts that neither of them bought because they both knew what he was thinking about. He pictured some sleazy Frenchman kissing her neck and muttering sweet nothings into her ear while his fingers snaked up her thigh. He thought of her moaning for another man, but that wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was knowing that she'd smiled at him invitingly, that she'd laughed at his jokes and probably touched his arm, asked him questions about his day like she usually did for him. It wasn't her body he couldn't stand her sharing; it was her heart.

They were having a fight a few weeks later when he forgot to pay the credit card bill on time. It happened every now and again when he wasn't paying attention. They got charged an outrageous fee, but even though they could afford it, it drove Clara mad and all she could do was see red. The tension between them was already high, so her response was disproportionate, and so was his.

Clara kept shouting even after she'd started crying. Finally, she asked if he was treating her like this to punish her.

"Punish you?" he replied in disbelief. "Punish you?"

She felt compelled to say it. "I slept with another man."

"Yes, I hadn't forgotten," he spat.

She clutched her heart and shut her eyes, face contorting miserably. "You haven't forgiven me."

"No, I have," he said, his tone still biting. "I have, but it's not an easy thing to forget."

She sank onto the sofa. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

John heaved a sigh. "I know." He walked around the coffee table and sat next to her, his elbows perched on his knees. "Clara, do you love me?"

"Yes," she replied almost resentfully. "Of course I do."

"Do you still want to be my wife?"

She took his left hand between hers and clutched it to her heart. "Yes."

He gripped her hand firmly and looked into her eyes. "Then do me a favour… Promise me you will never, ever do anything like that again."

She placed her free hand on his shoulder as she struggled to form words around shaky gasps. "I won't. I promise you, I won't."

He kissed her. "And neither will I."

"No—you don't need to promise. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Yes, I've got to promise—we both do. We're in this together, or not at all."

Clara circled her arms around his neck and clutched him tightly. She told him she loved him over and over and he clung to her as they both wept into each other's shoulders. When they pulled back, he couldn't help but laugh at her.

"You look terrible," he teased, wiping the tears from her eyes.

"Shut up."

He smiled as he brushed back her hair. "Let's go for a walk."

She wiped her eyes. "Are you sure you want to be seen with me?"

"Definitely."


The sun was setting behind the trees but the sky was still blue, save for the thin white clouds that spread across it like the strokes of a giant paintbrush. Clara looped her arm through John's as they walked, both talking and laughing about everything and nothing. The leaves were starting to fall; they crunched underneath their feet as they made their way down the familiar path towards the park, where the grass was green and muddy from last night's rain.

Clara felt relieved. She still bore the guilt of what she'd done and was sure she'd never forgive herself, but she could feel them moving past it, or rather incorporating it as best as they could into the life they would continue to lead together. She was so lucky to be married to a man who understood human error, who knew that she loved him despite her weakness. She was lucky to be married to a man who saw her greatest flaw and loved her anyway.

They stopped to allow a jogger to cross their path and that's when she saw him. He was about thirty feet in front of them coming in the opposite direction, his hand gripping the lead attached to a small black dog that panted heavily as it trotted along. Clara froze and John stopped and stared at her.

"What?" he asked.

She stared ahead, unsure of what she should say or do. She could lie and say she just got distracted by something, that she thought she recognised someone but it was just a stranger, but she couldn't do it. She couldn't lie to him when he'd forgiven her.

He didn't even know the whole truth of it yet.

"John… That's him."

"What's him?"

She swallowed hard. "The man coming this way with his dog. That's the man… from Paris."

John's head whipped in the direction of the Doctor and she watched his expression shift as he took him in.

"Him? That's… You're joking."

"No."

"He's twice your age."

"Probably. I never asked…"

"Blimey, you must have been drunk."

"Shh, he's getting closer."

"What's he doing here? I thought he was in Paris."

"We were on the same flight. He lives in London… and… his daughter goes to my school."


The Doctor had seen them up ahead—they were hard to miss—and while the idea of turning on his heel and running in the opposite direction appealed greatly, they had already spotted him. He could still run, but his daughter's dog had more control over the direction they took than he did. The unforgiving bastard eventually came to a stop in front of Mr and Mrs Smith, who stood there like two statues ready to welcome him to the gates of hell.

"Hello," he said to them both. His eyes fell first to Clara, but he didn't want to look at her too much in front of her husband, so he looked up at him. His features were rigid, anger seeping through his pores. He knew, then. The Doctor looked down at the dog sitting merrily on its worthless backside, panting up at them all. "This is Barkley."

He didn't know why he was talking, let alone introducing them to the bloody dog.

Clara tugged on her husband's arm. "We should go."

The Doctor felt something akin to disappointment stir in his chest, but before she could tug him away, Dr Smith (the Doctor still didn't know his name) spoke.

"You… slept with my wife."

"The dog will bite you if you hit me."

No one knew how to react to that—not even the Doctor. Clara's gaze had been lowered shamefully, but her eyes flicked to his after he spoke. She looked like she was trying to keep from smiling.

He wished he could say he hadn't thought about her every night since that night in Paris. He wished he could look at her right now and not want to know what it was like to kiss her. He wished this because he knew she already had someone she wanted; she didn't need him.

"John, please," she whispered when he didn't move.

John fixed the Doctor with an unblinking gaze. "Stay away from my wife."

Clara's eyes met his briefly before she and John brushed past him. He turned and watched them go, his heart breaking for them, for himself.

Why couldn't things be simple?


Clara was tempted to change the mark, but the fact was that Emily Brown had failed the first two tests of the term. If she didn't turn things around, she was bound to fail the entire course, and it was Clara's job to keep her students from failing. At least, that's how the parents and the school board saw it.

It was school policy that teachers notify parents when a student is at risk for failing. Clara stared at the mobile number printed next to Iain Brown's name and took several deep breaths before dialling the number and waiting for the dial tone.

He picked up after two rings. "Hello."

"Dr Brown, this is Mrs Smith, Emily's teacher."

There was silence on the other end of the line. Perhaps pretending like they could operate within the confines of a simple teacher-parent relationship had been a mistake.

Regardless, he played along. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm afraid so. Could we schedule a time this week to discuss Emily's exam scores?"

Her heart was racing. She gave him some times that would work for her and he selected 4pm next Wednesday. Clara's fingers shook as she scribbled the date and time on her desktop planner. "I'll see you then."


She didn't see John for another two days due to their work schedules conflicting. It wasn't always easy, being married to a doctor.

They went out for lunch on Saturday. As she was stabbing her salad with a fork, she told him that she had a parent-teacher meeting with Iain Brown, the man from the park.

"Couldn't you have just told him over the phone?"

"That's not the procedure."

"Damn the procedure," he scowled.

Clara placed her hand over his but John pulled his away. He started fidgeting. "I know you're upset."

"Yes, I am upset."

"But you don't have to worry."

"No? Last time you were alone with him, the two of you slept together."

Clara cradled the sides of her head. "I can promise you, that will not happen again."

"I know it won't," he snapped. He sighed and then said more gently, "No. I know it won't."

"I'm so sorry, my love."

"I know—I know."

He lifted her palm to his lips and kissed it, his thumb stroking her knuckles as he offered her a reassuring smile.


The Doctor straightened his jacket and sighed as he passed a group of students in the corridor. He stopped outside of Mrs Smith's classroom and heaved another anxious sigh before knocking on the open door. She looked up from her computer, a hesitant smile on her lips.

"Come in."

He took a seat across from her, carefully meeting his eyes even though he felt like one wrong look would summon her husband and he'd be beaten within an inch of his life.

They spoke about Emily's performance in the class. The Doctor had to confess he wasn't surprised—his daughter was still coping with the death of her mother, something that was made more difficult by her turbulent adolescent years. Clara was warm and understanding, exactly as he'd imagined she'd be. She did, however, express a deep concern that Emily improve because she couldn't make any exceptions.

"I lost my mum when I was younger," she said in a moment of surprising candour. "I was about Emily's age. I'm sure it's hard on you…"

They stared at each other in silence. The Doctor couldn't take it anymore.

"How are you?"

She lowered her eyes, her posture stiffening. "I'm fine."

"Yeah?"

She straightened a stack of papers on her desk and cleared her throat. "Yes."

"Things are OK between you and your husband?"

She looked at him, but not with anger. "Yes."

The Doctor nodded and stared at a little apple shaped ornament on her desk. "I take it after our meeting in the park that he knows what happened in Paris."

"Yes."

"And about the incident on parents' night."

She pressed her lips together.

His heart raced. "Oh."

Clara splayed her hands on top of the desk and stared at her fingers; so did he. She then pulled them towards her body, hugging herself, and asked, "What about you? How have you been?"

He hadn't been prepared for that question. "Fine—fine."

"You don't have to lie."

"Yes, I do."

"Why?" she asked, genuinely concerned.

Once again, his mouth made sounds without consulting him. "Because I still want to kiss you whenever I see you."

Clara breathed a little laugh and returned her gaze to her hands in her lap. "You're a good man, Dr Brown."

"No, I'm not."

She nodded. "Yes, you are. You could have shagged me and then left me alone in that hotel room, but you've been… really kind to me. And I'm grateful."

He didn't know what to say.

"I just wish I could do the same for you, but… I can't, and I'm sorry."

"I understand."

"Good."

Their eyes met, and for a moment they were back in that hotel bar, both of them alone until the moment their eyes met. It wasn't just physical attraction they shared, but a deep connection forged by two people who recognised the humanity in each other. They said goodbye to each other that afternoon and never saw each other again, but they thought of each other often, and always with fondness.